


Firsts

by peripety



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peripety/pseuds/peripety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place within episode 4x01, and references events from episode 1x21</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firsts

_"You never should have listened to me."_

 _"I didn't. I listened to me. Besides, it's just four walls and a floor. And top of the line appliances and stainless steel countertops and imported Italian fixtures..."_

 _"It's more than that. It's where we made love for the first time."_

 _"That wasn't love. I just gave you a rim job and fucked your brains out."_

 _"It was love to me."_

Justin totally disarms Brian sometimes, leaving him speechless...and utterly unable to say the words he knows somewhere, deep down, he feels.

Brian remembers when that fucker Stockwell told him that he used the truth like an assault weapon...well, his blond lover had just used them with similar intensity to punch him in the gut. And so Brian pulls Justin close and kisses him, as if that can take the place of what he knows Justin wants to hear - Brian's not _that_ self-absorbed not to realize that. But still the words close his throat, tight and hard, and remain unsaid.

Because, for Brian, love came from a man who delivered it with a careless backhand across the face, sending him sprawling with a bloody mouth.

Because, for Brian, love came from a woman who used it with cold and bitter precision to inflict another kind of wound, informing him that he was born unwanted, out of duty and a soulless observation of dogma.

 _God, how many years did I know Michael before I managed to trust in and believe the truth of the words enough to say it back?_ Brian wonders. _Have I ever told Lindsay? Will I ever be able to say them to my son who more than anyone looks at me with trust and unconditional acceptance shining in his face? Or say them to Justin who's become so much more...who now means..._

Their kiss ends, releasing Brian from the uncomfortable, unexpected moment of introspection. He expels a breath and steps back, pouring a shot of whiskey, knocking it back, watching Justin with brooding eyes while his thoughts remain stubbornly, uncharacteristically inward. No, Brian acknowledges to himself, the first time he fucked Justin hadn't been about love. Maybe Justin needed to remember it that way, as something romantic instead of the just-for-fun fuck it had been for Brian.

But that doesn’t mean Brian _hasn't ever_ made love to Justin - he'd be lying to himself if he tried to deny that. As he watches Justin moving across the loft Brian finds himself recalling with surprising ease the details of the many firsts he’s given Justin. First fuck. First rim job. First blow job. First fuck in public. Maybe, Brian decides, as strange as the notion initially seems, that it was inevitable for him to make love to Justin for the _first_ time, too. His eyes half-close as the memory of that particular first comes to him.

He remembers pushing the overnight bag he'd packed for his interview in New York off the bed. Soothing with his lips Justin's stinging eyes bright with tears he fiercely fought and refused to let fall. Taking the time and the care to murmur _I have to_ to every one of Justin's whispered pleas of _Don't go_ and _Don't leave me._ Stripping off Justin's clothes and then his own; preserving in his memory, indelibly, for some reason, the contrast of the pale softness of Justin's skin and the certain boyishness that clung stubbornly to the curve of his belly and the slope of his shoulders against the darker, more muscular, _you're-too-skinny_ stretch of skin over his own long bones.

But, like his need, Justin's mouth and eyes and beautiful cock were wholly adult, as were his strong hands as they clutched at Brian with something that seemed like desperate possessiveness, drawing him down onto the bed, saying _Fuck me..._ no Brian honestly corrected himself; saying _Love me._ And he _had_ made love to Justin; given him – _given them_ – long, slow, hot sex; drugging them both with endless kisses and the feel of sweat-slick skin on sweat-slick skin, as the musky smells and tastes of sex permeated the slow, possessive fuck and blended in with remnants of whiskey and cigarettes.

In Brian's memory that particular first somehow managed to be both _take-your-time slow and I-need-you-now_ urgent. And there had been something about it; maybe in the way their bodies knew each other’s well by then. They knew how and where to touch each other, for how hard and for how long. Brian knew that just a twitch of his hips could have Justin moaning and shivering as Brian’s cock slid against the patch of nerves that would skyrocket his arousal. How Justin, in return, could arch up and clamp down, hard, so hard and tight, sending Brian almost out of control. Brian had understood, even that early on, that he’d met his match, sexually, in Justin. Now that they were partners, make that _unconventional partners_ (though he more and more forgot to include that particular qualification) they still gave and gave to each other and it was never enough, there was always room for more, for again.

At times it still surprises…almost fascinates…Brian at how being with Justin can arouse him so honestly and intensely. After all, for years it had been rare for Brian to fuck anyone twice. And yet, from the beginning, time and again he had found himself dragging him home; this smart, persistent kid who managed to insinuate himself into his life without Brian even noticing it was happening until he had threaded himself so deeply into its fabric that the loft they were facing losing felt almost…empty…when he wasn’t around.

“Justin.”

When Justin lifts his head and looks up from his email or whatever porn site he is perusing on the laptop Brian is stripping his sweater over his head, a slight smile on his mouth. “We won’t be moving _right now,”_ he suggests almost lightly. A slow grin stretches Justin’s pouting mouth. By the time he comes to stand at the side of the bed Brian is stretched out, naked, and Justin’s eyes narrow as he studies the long lean lines of Brian for a silent, hungry moment before his hands go to the edge of his shirt to pull it off, over his head. Within seconds he is stripped and crawling over the bed to settle and stretch his body on top of Brian’s. He rocks slightly, enough to entangle their legs and feel the rub of Brian’s cock against the inside of his thigh.

“So,” Justin asks with paint-stained fingers brushing back Brian’s hair. His tone is teasing, his eyes darkened to blue smoke, and a smile tugs at his lips as he leans his head down to put his mouth on his lover’s, tasting a trace of whiskey. “Are we fucking? Or making love?”

Brian’s mouth, slightly reddened where Justin’s teeth have nipped at his lower lip, remains for a moment a serious line. Then he weaves a hand through Justin’s hair as it falls forward, a blond wave over his face. And he answers without thinking, forgetting (and not for the _first_ time) to be _“The_ Brian Kinney” who only believes in fucking. Instead, he is just Brian. Make that Just _in’s_ Brian, and that makes the answer so simple. A slow smile stretches his mouth. “Both,” he whispers, and draws Justin into him.


End file.
